Here Comes the Sun

I have been preparing my heart to accept the idea that we may never have living biological children. To be clear, there is no actual reason to believe that we won't; I am 30 and healthy and all of the tests that the doctor was willing to do before the one-year-of-trying mark came back normal. For me to be sane and enjoy life, I need to be able to accept the possibility that I may never conceive again. It is pretty hard for me to believe in happy endings when our daughter has been in the ground for 18 months and our second chance baby, our Grace, was gone before we got to know him or her. This is our seventh cycle trying to conceive and we weren't exactly careful for the three cycles before that. Why would we easily conceive twice, then struggle, unless something was off?

Lately, I have a love-hate relationship with the baby loss community. On the one hand, I think it is important to have connections to people who know how you are feeling, but on the other, it seems that most of those communities have only half the story in common with me now. As much as I celebrate each new "rainbow" pregnancy or healthy newborn "rainbow," I am not anywhere near knowing what it feels like to find comfort in the warmth of a new life. I used to feel so encouraged and hopeful when I read those stories, but now I feel bitterness and loneliness as I think again and again, "why not us?" I try not to be resentful when the well-meaning rainbow mommies reassure me that my time will come. Though no one likes to talk about it, for many parents the rainbow baby never does come. I have met some absolutely wonderful friends and acquaintances online over the past 18 months, but I find myself withdrawing from that world to try and protect my heart.

I accidentally came across a wonderful blog today called Losing Lucy and Finding Hope (click the text to visit). The author, Bethany, and her husband have been through stillbirth, two miscarriages, and adoption loss and just welcomed their "rainbow baby" in July at long last. I wept as I read post after post; her story and all of the scripture verses she shared along the way touched something in me that I have been trying to squelch. Hope. Though I am a long way from being able to believe in a happy ending for us, it helped to read her stories because I realized that she must have felt how I am feeling at so many points along their journey.

What is hope, anyway? These days, I'm trying not to be so specific with my hope. My heart believes that, one day, we will have a chance to parent children, however it is God chooses to bring them to us. When Haven died, I thought that my redemption as a mother, a wife, and a woman would only come through successfully bringing home another baby, but I don't know now if that is where our lives are headed. I surely do hope so, but I am trying to keep my heart open for the other possibilities that God may have in mind for us.

Soon after Haven died last February, we treated ourselves to iPhones. I immediately downloaded the Beatles song "Here Comes the Sun" as my ringtone, because it spoke to me of hope after such a heartbreaking winter. I feel now that we are coming out of a figurative winter and into the sun. I'm looking forward to what this "summer" will bring.

"Here comes the sun. Here comes the sun, and I say 'it's all right.'"

You know, I really think it will be all right.

Sunshine

Since I heard the words, "I'm sorry, there is no heartbeat" I have been a different person. I stared at the ultrasound screen that showed my completely still daughter and the Brandi I was ceased to exist. In the weeks and months that followed Haven's death, I was afraid to leave the house and have to face a world where I was an outsider, where I would have to answer questions. The whole summer came and went and I barely left my house or office at work. I was constantly afraid that someone would interpret a smile or laugh as a sign I no longer mourned my child; I was afraid to be happy. I was afraid my baby girl would be forgotten, that I would be forgotten. I honestly could not imagine that my life could ever improve or that I would ever be able to be more than the woman whose baby died.

Before I continue, let's establish one thing: I'll never be the same again. Burying your child will shake you to the core, shake your whole world, and you'll struggle to pick up the pieces. I was a pretty carefree person before those words tore my life apart, but now I carry a heavy weight in my heart. These are scars that will never completely fade. I'm twice a mom with twice-empty arms. No amount of time or yoga or even future children will change this. My self esteem will probably never fully recover, or my faith in people, or in my old perception of order in the world. My heart will always walk with a limp.

BUT.

I've been working hard to free myself from the anxieties that weighed me down and I am starting to see that there is life after your child dies. There's life! And joy. And fun. Things aren't all sad days and gray skies forever (though I will viciously defend my right to a sad day when I need one!) Yes, life can grow bright again. You can make friends, grow relationships, and find new sparks with your love. I can't say I'm always content, but I can tell you I'm finding myself again.

I'm grateful. So very grateful. I can see the sunshine again.

Mother's Day and Empty Rooms

I can feel Mother's Day lurking around the corner. Last year, I felt something like panic in anticipation of it...facebook was thick with sappy memes and posts (which are, without meaning to be, very exclusive), stores were oozing with merchandise, the radio and TV blared its soon-coming arrival, and everyone soaked it up. My broken heart was filled with bitterness and anger instead.

I avoided church last Mother's Day, knowing they would have all the mothers stand to be presented with flowers. It never occurred to me until Haven died how many women that tradition hurts - the infertile, the single women who want to be mothers, those whose family is broken for some reason, those who have come so close, like me, only to have their babes snatched away...and the list goes on and on. I won't be taking part this year either. Honestly, I don't think I would even if I was holding a new baby in my arms or my belly right now.

I don't feel the same level of panic this year as last, but there is an ache in my heart all the same. 

An order from Old Navy was the first time I bought anything for Haven. I was only a few months pregnant but found these cute onesies that said "I love my mommy" and "I love my daddy" for Mother's Day and Father's Day. I hope one day I can fill them with a new life. Right now, they are squashed together with all the rest of Haven's unused things in a big tub in the nursery closet. The nursery is still a reminder of what is not. I may finally work up the courage to dismantle it in the coming weeks. It stands as a symbol of expectancy and it crushes me every time I look inside.

Missing

There is always a piece missing from our lives; the little dark-haired girl who would be finding her legs and warbling out her first words. Well, two pieces; the little one we never got to know. There aren't words for how hard it is to be a childless parent. Because no one can see you are a parent, it is easily forgotten that you are constantly navigating a present that is drastically different from what it should have been.

I should have my hands full with Haven, big and pregnant with our second baby. We had talked about getting pregnant again right away so our kids would be close in age and so I could be home with them for as much of their early lives as possible. Yet here I am, nearly two years from when I first became pregnant, three negative pregnancy tests in the bathroom garbage, laying on the couch listening to the silence. One baby in the ground and one...I don't know where. 

I have been trusting God and choosing to believe that my time will come, but when months pass without another pregnancy, I feel like I am losing them again and again. When my period comes, it always feels so final. A friend of mine was talking about how stressful it can be to try and conceive and I felt like saying, "just imagine if both of your experiences with pregnancy ended in death." It's so hard to believe I will ever know the joy of parenthood.

As selfish as it is, I get anxious and angry when I think about the fact that some of my friends with babies Haven's age are probably already pregnant again and will have a second child before I bring home one living baby. I selfishly feel that it is my turn now. Anytime. 

I miss my babies so much tonight. I miss the life I should have had. 

Crystal Ball

There has never been a time in my life where I have so wanted to know the future. If I could just look forward two years and know what becomes of all this, I could make decisions and find a way to be content with whatever our lot is. Instead, we are back on the trying to conceive wagon hoping that this time is different.

It's so weird to be in this place. My pregnancy with Haven was a blessed, unplanned surprise. I was totally happy to wait to start trying, but she just...happened. I was sure everything would be okay, and everything pointed to me being right. Even after she died, I felt positive that, once I conceived again, that would be it, our second chance. I was worried about the end, not the beginning. Again, I was wrong. 

My mind is full of worries over my reproductive health and whether I will be able to bear living children. My body has changed so much since birth and even more since the D&C and I am worried it has been damaged.

My confidence is in tatters.

Ugh. Down day.

Last First

When you are expecting a baby you can't help but make plans, especially for your first year. It's like a script that has already been written for you with the specific details left to develop. First time sleeping through the night, the next size up diapers, teething, weaning, babbling, walking, words, etc.

When your baby dies, the script goes out the window. There is unfortunately not a handbook out there that can instruct you how to not feel like you want to die that first Mother's Day, or how you will push away fellow moms whose babies were born near yours, all living while your sweet one is underground and their nursery quiet and dusty.

The first year is a minefield of firsts and unfulfilled dreams, especially when facebook cruelly shows all of those babies hitting milestones that your baby should be experiencing. Your heart will twist and shrivel at the joy on their parents' faces and the unintentionally shattering comments that people tend to leave. "You deserve this more than anyone!" "There is nothing better than baby snuggles!"

Holidays and parent celebration days are the hardest, I think. You can't help but remember on those days that your life has been pulled apart and scattered to the wind. 

I was afraid of Haven's birthday, especially so soon after our miscarried baby and Christmas so fresh in our hearts. But thankfully (and surprisingly), I found this weekend peaceful. Rather than be sad at home, we stayed at a friend's cabin (he is out of the country). On the way out, I picked up a rose for Haven to quietly remind us of her. I lit a candle on her birthday (February 16th) and let it burn all day next to her rose. Danny and I relaxed, played games, watched movies, and enjoyed the quiet time together. On the way back into town today, I placed her rose on her stone. 

Yesterday was our last first. It is with some relief that we pass this milestone. I don't believe there is closure when your child dies - how can there be when you are constantly aware of their absence? But there can be peace and healing. I hope that both of those things continue to grow in us. 

Happy birthday, Haven. Mama and Dad love and miss you every day. I hope that wherever you are, you are warm and happy and laughing. 

This Year, I'm Gonna Live

Around 5:00pm on Valentine's Day, 2014, my old life ended and a new life began. When your child dies, you start from scratch. The house is burnt down, torn down to the foundation, and you rebuild. You look the same and you'll eventually seem to be the same, but under the surface and in the most vital ways, you are altered. How could you not be? You birthed, then held, then kissed, then released your dead child. Your life was one thing, then it was another, and you had no choice in the matter. It's a horror that you will never get past. You will learn to live with that grief, like a missing limb or chronic pain, but it's a one-way trip; you can't go back to being the person you were before.

I won't deny that this almost-year has ripped me apart; I feel a little like Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas, pieced together but threatening to tear apart with pressure. It's one of the paradoxes of grief that what breaks you also builds you. There are days when I feel like my shoulders are a mile wide from the burdens they've born and others where I am crushed under the weight.

New Year's Resolutions are not something I do, since exercise and diet plans usually end in me binge-eating cookies on the couch, and most of the things in my life that I want to change are not measurable, thus doomed to failure. I spent so much of my life prior to Haven's death waiting for the next big thing, waiting for life to happen. Wake, work, eat, TV, bed...rinse and repeat. The thing is, life is already happening. There may be some significant things that I wish were different, but if I have learned anything, it is that I only have today; I have very little control over tomorrow.

So if I only have today, I think that I should make the most of it. If I could choose something to change, it is that I want to start living fully. I want to wear the clothes I save for special occasions, learn to swim, get fit, grow my relationships, have fun, spend time thinking, read lots of books, and begin to be creative again. I want to try again, then again and again if necessary, to grow our family. I want to not give up and to rise above my bitterness and grief. I want to, and I will.

This year, I'm gonna live.

Welcome, 2015

I've been thinking for a few weeks about what I wanted to say today, here in the waning hours of the year that has taken so much. It's hard to put into words what I want to convey, but I'll give it a go.

In 2014, grief was our constant companion and teacher; tears have wet our cheeks, our pillows, each other, and there have been many days when we couldn't see our way forward. We've paid dearly in hope and peace - these things aren't easy to grow again.

It is hard in our situation to see beyond our heartsickness and confusion, our empty arms and quiet house. But today, as I went about my tasks, a few thoughts and moments made an impression. I soaked in the sun when I went out to buy our New Years' feast and reveled for a moment in the beauty of the world we live in. I noticed that I have learned to be still and really see what and who is around me. I gave thanks more than once for the amazing man who I am so proud and grateful to call "husband" and for the beautiful years we have weathered together. I thought of all of the relationships which have blossomed in the shadow of our grief; we learned this year how not alone we are.

Our plan is to flip the bird to the passing year during the countdown to 2015, then kiss in the new year, but I know that I won't look back on this time with only a feeling of loss. If I have a resolution, it is to not squander the lessons we have learned, because they came at such a high price. I want to honour our daughter by living fully and not letting any precious time slip past.

Here's to new beginnings, clean slates, fresh starts. Here's to an increase of hope, love, joy, peace, kindness, and growth in the new year for us and for all of you.

Happy New Year!

Lessons and Signs

I have been thinking back to a post that I published on my Map to Joy blog in September (click here to read it). We had just come off of our fourth unsuccessful month of trying to conceive again and I was overwhelmed with weariness and sadness and feelings of failure. When I read that passage of Hind's Feet on High Places, it came to me so clearly that I had a choice to become twisted and bitter or to accept with joy the circumstances of my life. As I sat on the gravel overlooking the river at my in-laws' cottage, I surrendered.

The same weekend, I wandered into the kitchen and froze; there was a rainbow dancing against the white of the oven. For those who don't know, rainbows symbolize babies born after miscarriage or stillbirth in the loss community (rainbows come after a storm). I looked up and saw that the rainbow was coming from a flat crystal which hangs in my mother-in-law's kitchen window on which Haven's footprints are etched. It was one of those experiences where time seemed to stand still; I felt so strongly in that moment that we would have another child.

We found out I was pregnant again about a month after that day and I thought immediately, "this is it! The baby I sensed was coming." We had come such a long way and this was our second chance. As you can probably imagine, I felt so betrayed, angry, and confused when we lost our "rainbow baby" to a miscarriage. I told Danny then that I didn't believe in signs anymore. How could I? He said that maybe we just misunderstand them when they come, though I thought, "what is the point of a sign then?"

I still don't know what the rainbow moment meant, or if it "meant" anything at all. Perhaps it was just that I needed hope that day and so it was communicated to me in a way that really caught my attention. I think I needed to receive that "sign" and this important lesson of acceptance at the same time so that I would not forget either one. I can't explain all of the changes that have happened inside of me this year, but I believe that God is at work in my heart, teaching me acceptance with joy. Teaching me empathy and generosity. Out of the worst pain has come some of the most beautiful fruit. It has been a year of surrenders.

Just the Two of Us

This Christmas was supposed to be a lot of things. Last Christmas, I was a few weeks into my third trimester and glowing with holiday excitement. We were given gifts for Haven: little moccasins from Labrador, rainbow striped leggings, and a set of warm onesies for the winter. I was happy. So incredibly happy. After a lifetime of a lot of disappointments and anxiety and hurt, I had finally won the lottery and was going to bring home the greatest gift. 

I remember soaking up my two weeks of holidays, almost looking forward to my last 6 weeks of work after the break. Our maternity photo shoot was coming up, and my first OB appointment was right around the corner. We were both healthy - the picture of a perfect pregnancy. My concerns were about getting my cloth diaper collection ready for use, getting my hospital bag packed, and hoping we got a late ultrasound, because we wanted to get a last sneak peek before Haven was born. It was bliss.

The people who think of stillbirth as just a  loss of pregnancy are so wrong. I delivered a perfect, healthy baby who came out still. Had she been breathing, we would have left that day with her. She would be a drooly, chubby little fiend pawing at her first Christmas gifts.

This year has been a year of firsts, as it is for all new parents. Except our firsts are of the saddest kind; first one month without her, first Easter, first Mother's Day, first Father's Day, first 6 months, first Thanksgiving, first little friend's first birthday party, and now, first time she has been on the outside as long as she was on the inside. Except that she is outside and in the cold ground under a tomb stone. All of that potential for joy has instead been reminder after reminder of how how much we are missing.

Christmas is not yet here, but we can't read anything on facebook or go anywhere in the city and not be reminded that our daughter died and she is not coming back. This holiday, always my favourite, is like an open wound being jabbed over and over and over.

I wish that I could dig a hole and hibernate until February.

Journal

I keep a daily journal that has space for only a few lines a day. The idea is that this diary will take you through 5 years. Each page represents a date; for example, March 5 has its own page with five sections so you can compare five years' worth of March 5 experiences. My first such journal was given to me when I was pregnant with Haven and was intended for mothers (click here to check it out). I couldn't bear to keep it up after Haven died, though now I wish I had. I started a new one (not mom-specific) a few weeks before we found out we were pregnant this time.

I decided to look through my current journal the other day...I missed Haven and I missed being pregnant. I noticed two things:

1) A few days before this little baby died, I had expressed to him or her that I loved them. It was a big deal for me, as I was so afraid to bond this time around. I am thankful that I said it before it was too late. Even though this little person couldn't hear me, I hope that the love was felt somehow. I've realized that no matter how I tried to deny my feelings, I was bonding anyway. I hope that, next time, I will open up my heart right away, no matter how hard it is. Life is delicate and too short to not love fully.

2) Around the time this baby died, there was a wicked winter wind storm and I noted in my journal that it reminded me of the weekend Haven died and was born. From the day we found out she had died to the day she was born (Friday-Sunday), the wind was violent, spewing ice pellets and freezing rain from an angry gray sky. It is fanciful, but I remember laying in my hospital bed watching the chaos outside my window and thinking with pleasure that she didn't go quietly. That the gale bore her up to heaven. Perhaps, my imagination says, that same wind visited and whisked this little one up too.

I have been reminded this week of how much I need this blog. Writing about my experiences is one of the only ways I have found to process this grief. Friends have told me that I am "brave" for sharing it publicly, but I only keep it public because I know how desperate I was to relate to someone after Haven died. If my blogs can provide that even on a small level for someone else, then it is all worth it.

Empty House, Empty Womb, Empty Room

When Haven died and I was waiting in my hospital bed to deliver her, I sent a good friend back to our house to put away all of the baby things that littered our common space. I had been furiously washing clothes and organizing Haven's things since her shower a few days before and I knew I couldn't return home without her and see everything set up as though she was still coming home.

In the following week, my mom helped me pack up all of Haven's things and stow them in the nursery closet. I left the furniture, bedding set, and decorations as they were, thinking it was for the best; surely we would be bringing home another child within the year. The better-hidden reminders that cropped up in the coming weeks were tucked just inside the door - I still haven't found the energy to put them away. It's fitting; just one more thing unfinished.

I rarely peek my head in the door, which I keep open. Sometimes I water the (neglected) plants in the window or the laundry creeps in from the hall and I step in to scoop it up, then quickly head back out. I know by now things are getting dusty in there, and the room is starting to taunt me. I should dismantle the whole thing and be done with it, but I can't.

I remember Danny so lovingly setting up the room; hanging the wooden shelf his late father made, assembling the crib, arranging the giant farm-themed stuffies on the dresser, making sure everything was just so. It makes me so angry to think about my tender, thoughtful husband putting all of that love into what has become a silent monument to Haven and a symbol of what we are still waiting for. I feel that we have been made fools of...twice now. We celebrated like a couple of trusting idiots, believing we could have what seemed to be our right, what most everyone came by so easily. 

Now we are returning home tomorrow after a week on the road and I'm empty again. Empty house, empty womb, empty room. Once again, freshly washed baby clothing will be snatched from the drying rack and stuffed into the nursery, along with the cheeky hockey onesie that I'd bought in a moment of bravery at a shop this week.

I had so little hope to begin with; having what remained of my confidence snuffed out along with that courageous little flicker of hope has exhausted me. How do I believe again? How many times do we extend our greatest desire only to have it slapped from our hands?

And yet, I am not ready to give up.

There's a bit of life left in me yet.

Of Time and Love

Last night, we watched the movie "Interstellar," which, being the sci-fi lovers we are, we enjoyed immensely. It is all about the theory that space and time are not linear as we perceive them to be. I'm certainly not an expert, but...in this theory, time is a layered thing that is beyond our perception. Some theorize that every decision and event has a large number of possibilities which follow as potential futures. In some sense, every one of those possible futures is being played out right now in different timelines, parallel to our own.

I don't exactly bring it up in conversation, as I don't like to come off as a complete lunatic, but one of my fondest thoughts has been that somewhere, in a different timeline, the words "I'm sorry, there is no heartbeat" are never uttered. Haven is born screaming and pink and we never know the anguish of birthing and burying our still daughter, nor the bottomless grief that a parent feels when they say goodbye forever. We would only know the joy of her smiles and laughs, of the sleepless nights and never ending laundry. In my thoughts, in this timeline, our family is whole.

Now, my even fonder thought is that, on this plane of time, our family of three is growing again. Our little nine-month-old Haven is going to be a big sister. We are overwhelmed but excited.

I don't live in these thoughts every day because I don't want to get lost in them, but every now and then, I think about the possibility and it brings me a little comfort. In my mind, I visit ordinary days in the lives of Other Us, where things are hectic but happy, and the house is filled with the sounds of a child. It's bittersweet.

The movie also made me think about this little bean growing inside of me. I realized that I have really been holding back because I am so afraid of losing another child. But I decided last night that I owe it to this little person to love him or her just as wholeheartedly as I loved Haven, whether this little life dies tomorrow or outlives and buries me.

Deep thoughts for a Thursday morning...

A Beginning

It is hard to know where to begin. For those who know me, the back story is mostly clear, but for anyone who might happen upon my little corner of the blogosphere and wonder what I'm all about, a little introduction may be in order.

My name is Brandi. My hubby, Danny, and I live on the island of Newfoundland on the East Coast of Canada. We both studied Linguistics, but I'm a desk jockey and Danny works in Loss Prevention. I didn't grow up here; I fell in love with Newfoundland, then I fell in love with Danny and made this beautiful place my home. But I guess the thing I am trying to tell you, the thing that I am skirting around, is that we lost our beautiful daughter, Haven, at the end of a healthy and uneventful pregnancy on Valentine's Day this year. I won't tell the story here, but if you visit my pregnancy blog (click here) you can read about it. I no longer feel like I can truly tell someone about myself without first telling them about what happened. Even though it is not obvious, I'm a mother to an absent child.

After Haven died, my life fell apart for awhile. I look back now and it's scary to see how far into the fog I had gone. The shock took about three months to wear off, then I realized that a lot of the feelings I had attributed to grief were in fact severe depression and anxiety. It took time, love, medication, therapy, and people's prayers to get out of that place. Depression's grip is not altogether loosened, but I find myself living again. Scarred, but looking to the future that was so recently obscured. Joy has also crept in, and I find myself living with a depth that I have never experienced before. Grief has a way of focusing you; nothing looks the same through its lens.

Now I'm going to tell you another thing about us. We are expecting again after a few months of trying. I'm happy and grateful...and utterly terrified. I process best through writing, so naturally, I knew that this is where I had to come. I'm just 7 weeks pregnant now, but whatever may come, I want our loved ones to know where we are at. If this year has taught me anything, it has been that we need each other.

There is a passage in the Bible that became special to me this year. Matthew 10:29-31 says, "Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father's care. And even the very hairs on your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows." It spoke to me that God knew my little daughter, even if no one else ever would, and that she was in His care. We had that verse printed on her headstone, and it is the inspiration for this blog's title.

I plan to use this blog to track my pregnancy and our journey along the way...to wherever life leads us. I invite you to follow along.